Songs of the Shenandoah (48 page)

Through this all, there had been little sleep.

Which is why Clare sunk back into Andrew's arms. “Let's just enjoy this a little while longer.”

“All right. But remember. It was your Mr. Field who insisted we remain inside the telegraph station this afternoon. Something about a surprise.”

“I am so thrilled for dear Cyrus.” Clare observed the gentle swaying of the
Great Eastern
resting far offshore. She marveled at the thought of this remarkably engineered ship spooling out cable all the way from Ireland to here in Trinity Bay. “Hopefully, the line doesn't fail after a few weeks as it did . . . what was that? Eight years ago? I am afraid if it does Cyrus will surely hurl himself from this cliff.”

“Or more likely, be hurled by his investors.” Andrew reached for her hand and pressed his lips against it.

“And those scoundrels will be the same ones parading him on their shoulders should this all work, telling him they believed in him all the time.” Clare looked up to Andrew and even in the fading light could see how much he had aged since their last visit here.

“Andrew?

“Yes?”

“That terrible war . . . our difficulties with the newspaper . . . how do you think all of this has affected our children?”

“Hmmm. Maybe it would make them stronger. More reliant on their faith.”

Clare could hear the doubt in his voice and she shared his fears. She glanced as far as she could and imagined she could see her beloved Ireland in the distance.

“We should join the others.”

“Yes.” Clare felt her eyes closing. “But let's first say a prayer for Cyrus.”

“Mrs. Royce. Mrs. Royce.” Clare felt a tug on her arm and opened her eyes. A full moon illuminated the otherwise dark sky. How long had they been sleeping on the bench?

“What is it?” Andrew was groggy.

One of the telegraph operators stood in front of them, a stocky man with thin, pointed eyebrows.

Clare sat up abruptly. “Oh no. Did we miss Cyrus's surprise?”

“I believe it is right here, Mrs. Royce.” The man beamed as a father holding a newborn. “We have received many messages already through the wire. Including this one, with your name on it.”

“What?” Clare reached out for the handwritten note.

“It came from Valentia. That's Ireland, of course. I recorded it myself as it arrived. It's quite official. Now you have something to pass down to your grandchildren and theirs as well someday.”

“Thank you so much, sir.” Clare rubbed her shoulders, numbed by the cold, and she waited until the man had left them to make his way back up to the station. Then Clare queried Andrew with her eyes, who in return only offered a shrug. She angled the piece of paper so it would catch as much of the moon's radiance.

Clare. My Great Encourager. My Success Is Yours. Listen Closely To The Music. Cyrus.

Despite her well-seasoned journalist skills, Clare was unable to pry a single additional clue out of Cyrus in Newfoundland. All she learned was that he had made arrangements for the cable to be among the first of those wired from Ireland.

The peculiar message provided entertainment as Andrew and Clare tried to unravel its cryptic meaning on their long trip back to Manhattan.

Since it was nighttime, with everyone slumbering when they returned home, they tiptoed their way to the mantelpiece. Clare pulled down the music box and carried it to the couch, and they sat, setting it between them.

Andrew struck a match and lit the oil lamp on the table beside them, which revealed once again the exquisite craftsmanship of Cyrus's gift. Clare opened the smooth teak lid, reached inside, and winded the tiny metal crank. The music sounded and the two of them listened as one would to a symphony performance. When it winded down, slurring the final notes, Clare cranked it up again and they tried to discern clues within the melody.

“Maybe he just wanted us to listen to the music together.” Clare closed the top and ran her fingers over the smooth surface. “It is romantic, wouldn't you say?”

“I have a thought.” Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife.

“Andrew, what are you doing? You'll scratch it.”

“Here, hold the lantern close.”

He flipped the box upside down and examined it closely. Then he lowered the blade. “There!” Something snapped.

“Don't break it, Andrew.”

“No. Look. There's a panel. Bring that candle closer.”

“Oh, Andrew, does this remind you of anything?” She grabbed on to his arm.

“You mean when we were in the graveyard, uncovering your Uncle Tomas's hidden ledger book? Or should I say Patrick Feagles?”

Clare slapped his arm. “You should say neither.” She shook her head. “Poor . . . miserable Uncle Tomas.”

Andrew slid the knife under the interior panel and lifted it. Beneath this was a small chamber in the box, and inside this was a folded document. He pulled it out as Clare brought the lantern closer.

“Is that . . . ?” Clare put her hand to her chest.

“It appears to be . . . original issue stock of the Atlantic Telegraph Company. No. No. Can that be true?” Andrew adjusted his glasses. “My dear lady, we are suddenly very, very rich.”

Clare squealed, and then remembering the children were asleep upstairs, she covered her mouth. Then she froze. “Andrew. We can't accept this.”

“And why would we not?”

“For the same reason we wouldn't take it before. And the time before that. And the time before that. Oh, Andrew. We write newspaper articles on Cyrus's project. It's as good as taking a bribe.”

“Ahh.” Andrew held up a finger. “But that, my dear sweet Clare, is the beauty of the music box. You never knew this stock existed. Therefore, it never compromised your writing. Mr. Cyrus Fields is a veritable genius.”

Clare tried to object but couldn't argue with his logic. It was beginning to be more about her pride and stubbornness than anything to do with integrity. At this point, it would be unfair to her family to continue to refuse this blessing. “I will just write one last story about the music box. We'll let everyone know about Mr. Cyrus's persistent generosity.

“Why, Andrew, do you know what this means? We can finally purchase the new press for the newspaper. We can hire more people so everyone won't have to work as many hours. All that we had hoped to do.” She expected this to bring a smile to him, but instead he sunk back in the couch and looked away. “What is it? What did I say?”

He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Oh, it's just there's something I've been wanting to share with you for quite some time.”

Clare placed the lantern on the table beside them and took both of his hands. “Tell me, Andrew. What's on your heart?”

He gazed at her for a few moments with nurturing in his eyes. “I never liked the newspaper. Not the ink on every part of my body. The stress of the finances. The customers clawing out my eyes, and the community kicking my ankles.”

“What?”

“That was my father's newspaper. The great Charles Royce. And I kept it going for him. But then, it was you. You are such a talented writer, and I know how important—”

She put a finger to his mouth. “Say no more, Andrew. I am tired. Very, very tired.”

“You as well? I am so glad to hear this. I mean, not that you're tired. But that, you know what I mean.” He put his hand to her face and smiled.

“Yes.” Clare melted at his touch. “And now, my love, I have a secret I have been keeping from you. A deep yearning. One I have ignored because it has been impractical. Impossible. Not even worth mentioning.”

She took the Atlantic Telegraph Company stock from his hand and held it up. “Until now.”

Chapter 59

The Wedding Gift

“Should we have spent so lavishly?” Clare shifted in her green glass-beaded gown, feeling both uncomfortable and awkward in her dress shoes.

Andrew took a sip from his glass of cider. Then he spoke above the playing of the string quartet, whose music was encouraging the merry feet of dozens of ballroom-dressed dancers, exchanging partners with laughter and cheers. “You told Caitlin she could have the wedding of an Irish princess.”

“Yes, and she must have thought I said English queen.”

He curled a finger around his glass and pointed toward Caitlin dressed in a long, slender white dress. Standing beside her was Owen, graciously accepting handshakes and congratulations. “How could you deny such joy to your sister and the
Daily
's most valuable employee?”

Clare nudged Andrew with her elbow. “I thought I had that honor?”

“You used to be the most valuable until, of course, you retired to begin writing your novel. And I suppose Owen won't be an employee much longer either.”

“Oh, I suppose I shouldn't be concerned about money on a day like this. With Cyrus's generosity, this is hardly a strain. And Caitlin does look so happy.” Her sister glanced over to them and smiled broadly.

“And there is . . . much to celebrate.” Andrew gave her a knowing nod.

She tapped him on the chest of his long-tailed black suit. “Now don't you go giving away our little surprise before its time.”

“I cannot preserve the secret anymore. Could I at least confide with the holy man?” Seamus was across the room, still wearing the black suit and white collar he wore to perform the nuptials. He had his arm locked with Ashlyn, who flowed with elegance in her navy dress, and they both were in cheerful conversation with Grace and Anders, who seemed to be enjoying his first visit to New York.

“You best be kind to Seamus,” Clare said, “as he is now much better connected than either you or I. Who would have believed that?”

Andrew pointed and Clare followed the direction of his finger to the edge of the dance floor, where Garret was patiently teaching his sister, Ella, how to dance. “He's become a real gentleman,” she said. “So much so that I am afraid he won't share with us his true feelings. Do you think he will be fine with our decision?”

“He seemed genuinely excited, I must say.” Andrew set his empty glass on the tray of a server passing by. “If not, at least Garret will have many years to get over his deep regret.”

“Which means only one family member remains for me to fret about.” Clare waved to try to catch Davin's attention, who leaned with his back against the wall, his arms crossed. Finally he noticed Clare, and with some reluctance he ventured his way toward them.

Clare straightened out his tie and dusted off his shoulder. “Look how handsome you are without that scruffy beard you've been wearing. There now. I can see around this room at least a handful of delightfully eligible young ladies, each no doubt grieving your sour disposition.”

“I am terribly sorry. Is it that obvious?”

Clare gave an “I am afraid so” nod.

“All right then, I will do better. It's the least I can do for Cait.” He held out a hand to Andrew and they shook. “This is truly a wonderful wedding you're hosting.”

“It is all Caitlin's doing. She had been planning her wedding for more than a year. It's just . . . with Andrew and my recent good fortune, we were able to sweeten her arrangements a tad. And she's never been pampered before. Never in her whole life.” Then Clare sighed and straightened the rose pinned to his coat. “But we were discussing you, dear brother. How are you?”

“Me? I am doing well enough. The farm is coming back nicely and I enjoy the labor. Seamus and Ashlyn have been so generous with their hospitality.”

Clare could see there was something else. “But?”

He hesitated. “I haven't shared this with them yet, but I'm feeling as if I should be . . . going somewhere. There is a stirring in my spirit I can't explain.”

“Clare, Andrew, what a magnificent celebration this is.” They all turned to see they were joined by a gray-bearded man outfitted in a Union officer's dress uniform.